


between tea time and world domination

by obfuscatress



Series: tea time's the best time [1]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, Tea, like if there was a tea fandom this would be in it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 00:07:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3957028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obfuscatress/pseuds/obfuscatress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes considers the war zone to lie beyond the edge of his teacup. Harry Hart isn't all that different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	between tea time and world domination

**Author's Note:**

> Technically pre-Harry Hart/Mycroft Holmes.

**I.**

He meets the Turkish ambassador over a cup of Caykur. He meets presidents, prime ministers, minor and major government officials waiting to discuss their petty attempts at keeping the world together with a few peace treaties and collaborative armed forces. He starts wars and ends them as he stirs his tea, because Mycroft Holmes _is_ the British Government and he considers the war zone to lie beyond the rim of his wafer thin porcelain cup.

He pays audience to whomever may be deserving of it on a particular day in antique leather chairs molded for comfort as Anthea brings in his favourite set of east asian china. This is how, one afternoon in typical London rain, he meets Harry Hart, lean lines of a tailored suit and umbrella that are not his own waltzing into his office.

“Mr Hart is here to see you. Early five o’clock appointment,” Anthea’s nonchalant voice drifts through the intercom, reminding Mycroft of losing his afternoon to trying to sort his brother’s life out.

“Mycroft Holmes,” Harry Hart says and Mycroft wonders, if for once he’ll get to play the game properly, “You requested an appointment with a Kingsman.”

“Arthur, to be precise,” Mycroft tells him and points him towards his preferred battlefield in front of the fireplace, “but I changed my mind in light of recent _events_.”

Hart arches an eyebrow in question, but takes a seat in one armchair, pulling at his trousers like a well accustomed suit wearer and Mycroft gives him mental credit for it before mimicking the gesture. Anthea brings in a steaming pot of tea on a silver tray without a word and Mycroft waits until she’s out of the room to break the silence that’s settled. “Afternoon tea has had a place in British politics since the Neoclassical age,” he says as he pours it with the care it deserves, “as have certain families, figures and organizations; Kingsman being only one of many.”

“Surely I am not here for a history lesson,” Harry hart says and helps himself to a spoonful of sugar and a dash of milk in his tea.

“No, you are not. My point is that the public relies on being kept safe and in the top of world politics and economies, which has so far been the case. I am, however, concerned that certain members have begun to waver and showed unforgivable weakness. You have heard of the disappearances of several high scale figures of the public eye, monarchs and ministers, and other such players?”

“I have indeed. And I suppose you know something about it, perhaps even how it connects to a certain Richmond Valentine,” Hart quips.

Mycroft tips his head slightly to one side and sets his teacup into its saucer with a soft tinkle. He does so like people with an air of old-fashioned and efficient honesty hidden in a velvet lined case of manners. “Yes, I do, though not in full,” he admits and then decides to get straight to the point, because he despises wasting his time, where it could be better spent, “However, it might be argued others are better informed about this. One could even say they have been compromised and with these figures the British public has been too. In short: a Kingsman may have forgotten their place, Galahad.”

“And what do you propose?”

“Oh, I do not care to make a proposition,” Mycroft soothes with one of his placating smiles, “It merely happens that I sit here, in this very chair, every day facing the most powerful men and women on the planet and thus, this country remains at peace. You are an active player, while I navigate our country's bureaucratic labyrinths, but ultimately our interests mirror each other’s.”

They both take a well calculated sip and Mycroft looks almost bored, when he says, “I will only tell you that not all knights at the round table are noble men. There is a reason why I chose to meet you instead of Arthur.”

Harry Hart doesn’t say anything for a few moments, though Mycroft knows exactly that his speech streams as a feed in Merlin’s branch, where at least one jaw will have dropped. he finishes his tea and revels in how their homeland would fall into complete turmoil, if it weren’t for him.

“I see. I shall keep that in mind,” Hart says and gets up, ready to excuse himself and maybe save the world too. Mycroft does so like watching his investments pay off, and knowledge, after all, is only one kind of power and some men know how to put it to good use better than others. “I’m afraid I have some business to take care off,” Harry Hart tells him, not one bit of sincere apologeticness in his voice.

“Of course. It was nice to have you over for a chat over tea, Galahad.” Mycroft rises to meet the Kingsman’s eyes and shakes his hand, two firm grips meeting for three long seconds. “Until the next time.”

Harry Hart disappears, umbrella dangling from one arm and Mycroft returns to his desk. It takes two minutes for Anthea to appear with a collection of files annotated with her notes on them. She takes the tea tray with her as she goes and Mycroft goes back to saving the British Empire from collapsing. Somewhere out there Galahad is waiting to sink his claws into Valentine, and Harry Hart tries to digest his conversation with a minor government official.

 

 

**II**.

There’s the Lancelot trial, and Mycroft pays as little attention to it as he would normally. He notes the candidates, Eggsy and Roxy, being the only ones worth even a minute of his attention: one for her outstanding abilities, the other for his surprising success. In the end, Eggsy leaves Kingsman with only a pug and an overall as a memory and Mycroft is only mildly disappointed. That is until Harry Hart decides Eggsy isn’t quite done with yet and Mycroft decides he’ll make use of the young fellow, if Kingsman doesn’t.

There’s no time to do much more, because the world is still headed towards chaos and then there’s the bloody incident at the church in Kentucky. The footage is gory and he can’t quite pin down the strange feeling in his gut as he watches Galahad slaughter a church full of people  in a pristine suit like it’s nothing. He holds his breath as Galahad is almost shot and then presumed dead, except that he’s not, because the elaborate plan the agent crafted with Merlin played out like it was supposed to and Valentine makes the fatal mistake not to check the body. And the only reason the world isn’t controlled by a megalomaniac seems to be a lack of thought in the execution of the single steps in their extravagant plans. Mycroft gets off the feed and waits for the Kingsmen’s next move. When he takes a break, he re-watches the afternoon’s brutality, because it’s a little bit addictive to witness such effortless violence, and he has to briefly wonder what he’s getting himself into.

Mycroft Holmes lets the thought go and some days later Harry Hart comes back and hides out to take his revenge on Arthur, the traitor. Mycroft is glad someone’s handling that for him, because he’s got enough to do as it is. It just so happens that Eggsy gets his hands on the bastard before Harry Hart, and Mycroft thinks yet again that he was right about the boy all along. He fancies Harry Hart looks rather proud, when he learns of it.

But Mycroft has a country to run, so he drinks his London Fog at his desk and sorts through all sorts of documents while he leaves someone else to save the world. He can’t do everything after all, and Harry Hart is not alone. There’s Eggsy and Lancelot and Merlin and god knows how many wild cards up in each of their sleeves; not that they’d need those, as he soon finds out.

It’s rather James Bond movie-esque in the way that the whole thing plays out, with private jets and machine guns and Merlin’s impossibly divine skills as a hacker. Not to mention that Valentine isn’t too bad at what he does and Mycroft’s heart may or may not race a little during the ordeal. It slows as the heads pop one by one and the bad in the world faces a mass destruction. More than a few people in his building lose their heads too and Mycroft thinks it’s only good riddance. He drinks his tea and works twice as much, because the stock market isn’t the only thing about to go off the rails.

  
  


**III.**

Everything’s a tad chaotic, considering the plummet of the financial world and the sudden need for elections all over the world. Mycroft keeps careful score of the newcomers to his political sphere - really it’s more like a playground for all the passive aggressiveness in the air - and listens to Sherlock rant about yet another fault in the world over a game of Operation.

“I’m surprised he even made it that far, considering he was barely any better than a goldfish,” Sherlock spits and gestures wildly as is his habit, though his eyes are glued to Mycroft’s hands like a hawk’s.

He keeps a steady grip on the little plastic wishbone he pulls out of its cavity and says, “The real question here is why you bother to be so upset about it.” He hands Sherlock the tongs and his brother is careful that their fingers don’t touch even as he’s busy trying to kill Mycroft with one of his glares.

“Why, oh why, am I the only one concerned by the lack of intelligent beings on this planet?”

“Because,” Mycroft says as Sherlock’s brow wrinkles in concentration, “that would either mean someone like you would rule the world, or we’d have a Jim Moriarty on our hands every day. And we wouldn’t want either one of those, no would we?”

Sherlock only glares with twice the intensity and no effect as he continues, “Besides, you don’t seem to mind a lack of brainpower in John Watson. Though the sentiment is still rather revolting.”

His brother pulls out a broken heart and then slams the tongs purposefully into the metal outline of the hole, so that the buzz cuts Mycroft short.

“Must you be childish?”

“Must you be such a stuck up toff?”

Mycroft simply sighs and doesn’t dignify the question with an answer. Instead he pours himself a second cup of tea, which Sherlock surprisingly boiled without making a fuss of it and the kettle had even seemed like using it mightn’t end up killing them both. Not that Mycroft could imagine better premature end. Naturally, Sherlock being Sherlock, he’d made some vicious remark about the church massacre, and Mycroft had briefly considered hitting him over the head with the damn kettle.

Only, that wouldn’t get his mind off the church massacre and Kingsman and Harry sodding Hart. And he didn’t want to give Sherlock the victory of losing his temper and killing him in such an elegant way. Just because one of them would eventually end up murdering the other, didn’t mean they didn’t have to do it _properly_. Except that Sherlock is infuriating and Mycroft would occasionally like to put his hands to good use and just strangle him. But in that case Sherlock would grin at him like a madman and he’d only be capable of thinking how he can’t kill someone in a fashionable way. If such a thing could be said, and it could, because he’d seen a Kingsman do it.

“Your turn,” Sherlock grumbles and Mycroft sets his tea away, because this is serious business and Sherlock in insufferable, when he wins.

  
  


**IV.**

Mycroft takes the day after the French elections off, when the rest of Europe is busy kissing arse. He takes a car to Savile Row and wanders right past his regular tailor over to the Kingsman shop. If nothing else, he appreciates the exemplary devotion to tailoring despite being a spy base. And if maybe someone whom he wants to be noticed by does indeed take note of his appearance, well that’s just a perk. He goes up to the clerk under the pretense of looking for new cufflinks, not that he really minds getting new cufflinks, and while he’s at it he sneaks a look at their umbrellas too.

“Would you like to take a look at the umbrellas too?” the clerk asks, because he’s probably a trained spy too and managed to pick up Mycroft’s micro glance in a different direction.

“Oh, perhaps another time.” He doesn’t mean it one bit though. He may be willing to forgo his tailor without a qualm, but he’d never dare to buy an umbrella from anywhere than his regular shop, because those things are holy and he might just end up dead in the street. Instead he feigns interest in various cufflinks and settles on vivid amber for a splash of colour to his toned down three piece suits.

He makes a show of paying with cash and leaves the shop with a little velvet parcel tucked into his jacket pocket. On a whim, Mycroft decides to forgo the car for a walk with the cufflinks tinkling in his pocket all the way to his office. Somehow, in the hour he was actually gone of the afternoon he took off, all hell breaks loose in the Ukraine.

“Honestly,” he grumbles to Anthea, “It’s like no one is capable of doing their jobs anymore.”

“If they ever do find a way to make man immortal, sir, you might have a shot at saving the world permanently.”

“I think I’d rather not. I’ll have my tea early today.”

“Earl Grey, sir?” she asks without looking up from her phone and someone might consider it rude, but to him it’s a sign of efficiency.

“I think I’d rather go for a grapefruit flavoured white today, seeing as I will be here for the rest of the night, there’s no point in getting to the ‘good stuff’ now.”

Her mouth twitches in what he can only presume is a smile as she texts someone the corrected order, because she might bring him the tea, but she certainly doesn’t make it. As far as anyone else is aware Anthea is his PA. As far as he is concerned, she is one of the most powerful women in Britain and if he ever were to trust anyone with his life, she might be the chosen one. Sherlock’s no good, despite being family and he distrusts most of his security personnel as it is. His thoughts skid to Harry Hart and the other knights Kingsman has to offer and then he tells himself he doesn’t know any of them. Next he has to discard the idea of getting to know a certain someone and it’s all turning out to be rather awkward.

Mycroft shoves the thought to the back of his mind and makes a wholehearted attempt to sort out the political mess that’s conjured itself out of nowhere, so he can go to home and maybe get a full night’s sleep for a change. Anthea brings tea and goes back to ruling half of London via her mobile. Mycroft gets on the phone and mentally brushes up on his Russian before he’s put through to his Russian equivalent and the game of chess their interactions tend to pose.

  
  


**V.**

Kingsman happens to sort itself out at the same time the rest of the political circles seem to pull their act together and Mycroft’s not only allowed to take a breather, but also gets company for tea. Harry Hart seats himself with the same grace as the first time around and has the audacity of ask for chinese melon seed tea, perhaps just to irk Mycroft. But he happens to have it hand, because when it comes to tea - and maybe, just maybe also Harry Hart - Mycroft Holmes is a wee bit obsessed and paranoid, so he’s got god knows what in store. Anthea brings them a pot of Liuan leaf with a questioning look on her brow that only serves to further annoy Mycroft.

“I heard Mr Unwin has been promoted to Galahad,” Mycroft says as he pours the tea into black porcelain cups he especially requested for today. For the sake of change, for the sake of an exceptional spy in his office. For the sake of someone, perhaps worth his prolonged attention. “Rather noble of you, to give the spot up.”

“He deserves it,” Harry Hart tells him, and Mycroft was not mistaken about the pride that the man clearly feels towards the boy.

“And what happens to you now?”

“For now,” Hart says, “I work at the Kingsman shop. I may be a man with a particular set of skills, but back in my days the training also included learning the craftsmanship and working shifts at the shop.”

“Something to fall back on.”

“And something to teach a young man patience. Though it rather seems that older men should be taught impulsiveness.”

The words aren’t lost on Mycroft, but he keeps sipping his tea with a steady hand and an even stare. “Is that so?”

“Quite.” Harry Hart takes to staring at the painting atop the fireplace. It’s a battlefield, one of the many the british have fought on, and Mycroft has no special inclination towards it, but he doesn’t outright dislike it either. He waits for some sort of remark on the historical context or sardonic thought on warfare that never comes.

Instead Harry Hart says, “Why did you do that?”

Mycroft is perfectly calm, when he asks him what he means, despite the fact that he has to set his cup down or he’ll crush the handle in a nervous grip.

“Back when you thought it best to inform me about the former Arthur.”

“Like I said, I have the best interest of the British public at heart.”

“And nothing more?”

“Not then?”

Harry Hart doesn’t ask, “And now?”

Mycroft wouldn’t have an answer to _that_ question anyway, so they just sit there drinking a second cup of tea in silence. It becomes six o’clock somewhere along the way and the Big Ben chimes outside in hollow gongs reminding the two of them of the passing time.

“Thank you for tea,” Hart says as he gets up to excuse himself and Mycroft thinks that history really does repeat itself, even if they’re just drinking tea and London is as rainy as usual.

“My pleasure, Mr Hart,” Mycroft says as he gets up, this time to walk the other man to the door, “And I wish you the best of luck with your new job. If I ever need a new suit, I’ll know where to look.”

“Well, it seems you’ve already found a rather dashing pair of cufflinks.”

They both glance down at the Kingsman issue cufflinks glimmering in the warm light of his archaic office and Mycroft could swear that one glance creates an intangible amount of tension.

He meets Harry Hart’s eyes and the man quirks the most smug smile Mycroft’s ever seen on anyone, who’s not Sherlock. “They come as an explosive variant too,” Hart tells him, “and in a telluric shade that might match your eyes quite nicely.”

“I shall take it into consideration,” Mycroft says and tries not to blush before Harry bloody Hart is out of his office and there’s a door between him and the rest of the world. He sighs in defeat as he concludes he’ll have to make a trip down to a little shop on Savile Row sometime soon. For now he sits down and finishes his tea.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was written on a whim and is a bit strange. I'll continue it in the form of a series at some point.
> 
> The theory about how Harry survived the church incident originates from this post:  
> http://shippress.tumblr.com/post/119112979257/harry-hart-isnt-dead


End file.
